


Time for Some Thrilling Heroics

by clarinetta, HippieAshley



Category: Firefly, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Codependency, Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:56:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarinetta/pseuds/clarinetta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippieAshley/pseuds/HippieAshley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ongoing and randomly updated group of ficlets set in the same AU, in which Sherlock was sent to "school" with River, and John, along with his friend Simon from med school, get them both out. Most of the ficlets take place either during or after the Firefly series. Written from several perspectives. All of these are written for and/or with hippieashley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Good Day

John knows it is a good day when he walks into Sherlock’s tiny bunk and sees the man lying on his back, his hands pressed together, fingers touching the underside of his chin, his violin not two feet from him on the floor, the wood shining in the open case.

They didn’t have much these days, not really; flying with ten other damaged crazy people on one mid-sized Firefly was not the best idea John had ever had. Deep space had never been of interest to him, and now it was everywhere, all around. Crushed him sometimes, if he thought too much on it. Mostly he didn’t. He kept an eye on Sherlock, traded insults with Jayne, watched River get up to her (sometimes deadly) shenanigans. He helped Mal on the jobs when he could, and hid with Sherlock when he couldn’t. In a way it was simple. Shiny. Get in, get out, keep moving. Stay in the air, out of the world.

He watches Sherlock; Sherlock thinking in a way he hasn’t been able to do for years. Calmly, without sudden jerks or screams or crying fits that quit as soon as they start and end with fists, sometimes. And with that violin next to him, John can’t help but feel a little optimistic about the day.

Then there is a giant wrenching of the ship, tossing everyone to the side, and John hears Mal shout: “What NOW?”


	2. Symmetry

Voices crashing into each other, running each other over. Simon and John inches apart, red faced, furious over some stupid little thing, screaming like there’s no tomorrow (they’re in space, days and weeks have no meaning); could wake up the Captain, wake up everybody. Already woke him up, and River. Not that it’s a terribly difficult feat these days.

Sherlock doesn’t like to hide; it’s not in his nature. But hearing John shouting and carrying on like this—it unsettles him, makes him queasy and sad. He turns off their voices (he can do this now: the first thing they did was take note of his inability to think properly when other people were talking, so they gave him an off switch) and just watches, peeking out from the edge of the open doorway.

River is there, on the other side, completing the second half of the scene ( _symmetry_ , Sherlock notes with a hint of satisfaction)—Simon and John the shouters, Sherlock and River the cowards, mirrored across a doorway, watching the ones they love tear each other (themselves) apart. He’s so exhausted, so tired, and he thinks suddenly that none of this _matters_ ; whatever they’re fighting about is tiny, infinitesimal compared to the Verse, the deep black, the stretch of time. Everything dies eventually, and everything dies alone. Heard the Captain say it himself. _Why don’t I just tell them? make them shut up, make them_ see?

“You know why,” River says, her voice quiet and razor-edged, like she expected better of him. She tears her eyes away from Simon’s clenched fists ( _can’t look, can’t look_ ), slides her fingers down the dirty, well-loved metal door frame (breaks the symmetry). Walks away, hidden behind strands of hair and pain.

Protection, Sherlock thinks as he watches. John doesn’t need to see the things he sees. Doesn’t need to understand how far the darkness goes, how much it hurts to know that. Has to be some kind of balance between them, so Sherlock knows he can’t say anything. There must be that balance. Protection for protection.

Symmetry.


	3. Barbed Wire Supernova

Sometimes John hates it, he really does. Sometimes he secretly despises being shackled to this person, being imprisoned with this giant ball of dark curls and information and abandonment issues. (John can’t call Him by His name when he’s like this; He turns into a nameless supernova of dazzling light and tight, clinging barbed wire that digs in where it isn’t wanted. He is Godlike: all-encompassing, suddenly and painfully inescapable.)

Every once in a while, John looks at the walls of their shared bunk and feels them closing in on him, whispering at him that he’ll never ever be able to leave, he’ll never be independent or alone again (alone was a safety for him, it was a relief, Before). Laughing at him. And then He reaches for John’s hand, in His sleep, not realizing what He’s doing, and all John can see is the sharpness of His barbed-wire hands and it’s too much and he has to get away, has to run somewhere. Anywhere else. To unshackle himself and be alone for a while. To think without His mind crowding in, all anxious and screaming and bright and tangy-sour. Because that’s what He does. He takes over and doesn’t even realize He’s doing it.

The frightening part is, John knows that He hates this too. Hates needing someone, hates being Weak like this. It’s not something He can control, but sometimes, John just needs the freedom to loathe Him for it. He needs the space to be silent and vitriolic and unfair and bitter. He needs those fleeting black gaping-hole moments to regret everything he’s ever done for his best friend, to wish he could turn the clocks back with his bared teeth and just _leave Him there_.

If he does not have these moments, he will lose himself entirely to the Black, and Sherlock would be lost with him. Sometimes hating Sherlock is the only way to keep them both alive.

John doesn’t regret these moments. He’s not ashamed of them, and he doesn’t try to stop them when they come. But when they run themselves out, when his bitterness and malice flop down dead with exhaustion and leave a dull rusty taste in the back of his mouth, that’s when the regret falls from John’s eyes and suddenly He’s no longer a barbed-wire supernova. He’s just Sherlock, barely awake, Sherlock who still snorts in derision and plays his violin and plans jobs for the Captain. Sherlock who loves Serenity and loves John and hates that he needs both.

And John almost hates him in the black moments, but that’s not the point. The point is that he reattaches the shackles himself. He learns to call Sherlock by his name again. He lets himself be needed and loved, and he loves back. That’s what matters.


	4. Packing and Unpacking

“John!”

Dammit. Not a voice he particularly wants directed at him right now. He slides the door to his bunk closed, leaving Sherlock sitting hunched and shivering on the floor inside, and turns to face his Captain, teeth clenched together so tight they grind a little. _Don’t grind, Johnny_ , his mother chides in his head. He hides her dead face away. Buries it so deep not even Sherlock will ever see it.

“You got to do better than this, John,” says the Captain, low, almost under his breath. “I can’t have this kind of disruption on my ship.”

“There was nothing I could’ve—”

“I got myself enough trouble already, the way we live, without your little _dǎodànguǐ_ and River messing with the internal side a things!”

“I didn’t even know he knew how to work the controls!” John cuts in, trying to keep the pleading note out of his voice. “I thought Wash kept the doors locked when we’re on auto—”

“He does.”

John freezes.

“Now you see where I’m comin’ from, Doctor,” the Captain continues. His voice is still low and even, but there’s danger spelled out in the smoothness of his face, the steadiness of his gaze. This is the bottom line. One more screwup and that’s it. They’re on their own in the Black.

“Keep him. In line. Understood?” the Captain grits out through his teeth.

John straightens his back and levels his gaze. He knows an order when it’s given. “Yes, Captain.”

—

When he walks into the bunk a few moments later, Sherlock is no longer sitting on the floor like a crumpled-up piece of paper about to blow away. Instead he seems to have gathered his belongings (a pitiful little pile, really, just a few changes of clothes and a tiny chemistry set Kaylee picked up for him a few weeks ago) on his bed and is currently stuffing them into a small black bag he must have stolen from someone. ( _Simon, probably_ , John thinks, bemused. _He’s never really liked Simon. Wonder why_.)

“Going somewhere?” John says, his voice conveying Raised Eyebrow.

Sherlock doesn’t answer; he just continues packing, his movements a little jerkier than normal. John approaches him and wordlessly takes the top shirt and pants from the bag, putting them back into the bottom drawer under the bed. They continue the pattern: Sherlock packing his things, John unpacking them, until everything is put away. Sherlock says nothing; his jaw is clenched so tightly it must be hurting him, but John does not comment. He has learned when to speak and when to be silent. It’s a fine line to walk, a tightrope over the vast deepness of the ‘Verse, really, but John’s always had good balance.

John zips up the empty bag and hands it to Sherlock, the tightness around his mouth reading _Give this back to Simon before he figures it out_. Sherlock takes the bag reluctantly, and John smiles. _Stupid lovely git_.

“My _tiān shēng yí duì_ ,” Sherlock murmurs, leaning forward lightning fast and kissing John’s forehead. He is gone before John realizes what happened.

_My soul mate_. A thank you and an apology.

Close enough, anyway. As close as he’ll ever get.


	5. The Benefits of Givin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaylee in the midst of fulfilling her yearly tradition of buying/making everyone on the ship a present for her birthday.

Persephone makes Kaylee sing. Somethin’ in the air, maybe, or the brightness of the sun that’s almost too much but not quite. It’s “just on the brink of all right,” as her daddy says. (Used to say. No time to think on that now.) She loves Serenity; it’s her home, all the way out there in the smack-middle of the ‘Verse with the stars plastered all over and the blackness bleeding through the cracks. She loves all that. But there ain’t no law says she can’t love other places too. 

So she sings to herself and flits around the gigantic open air market, picking up trinkets and putting them back down again with a low whistle at the prices. There’s presents to buy and the Captain ain’t given her enough time to do it all, so she’s gotta find the most important things she can’t make on her own down time. _I can sew a scarf for Jayne to match his hat_ , she thinks vaguely to herself, mentally ticking off her family members and running through her list of presents. _I already gave Zoe and Wash that music box from last week’s money. Captain wanted that laser gun; can’t afford that, but maybe a water pistol shaped like—Oh_!

She actually lets out a little gasp when her hand strays over and picks up a dusty old box from a random table in the middle of the dirt road. The words _Chemistry Set!_ are emblazoned on the front in dark gold and red letters (or what mighta been dark gold and red once; they’ve long faded in Persephone’s sun) with the barely visible caption _Astound your friends with thousands of experiments!_ written underneath.

\--

_Sherlock had been experimenting on the crew for weeks. They were between jobs, and money and spirits had been runnin’ awful low for a while. Only thing that kept it interesting was playing hide and seek with River (River always won) and waiting to see who Sherlock would experiment on next. Kaylee supposed she shoulda been grateful she fixed the couplings that had been fiddled with as fast as she did, but she felt nothin’ but irritation when she turned around in her engine room and saw Sherlock standing there, calm as you please, taking notes and muttering to himself. She’d been short with him for the first time since meeting him. Not that he noticed, but she felt rotten about it later anyways. Needed to make it up to him somehow._

\--

 _Perfect_ , she thinks, snapping back from the memory, and lets the sun’s warmth fill her up, satisfaction at finding exactly the right thing seeping into her bones, making her stronger and a little bit better. Somethin’ else her daddy used to say, way back when she was just a _niūniu_ on the edges of a dusty, forgotten outer planet. “Takin’ things from people, lettin’ them give you presents, now that ain’t bad. Ain’t nothin’ about that gonna hurt you at all,” he’d say out the side of his mouth, like he always did when he said something important. “But _givin’_. Now that’s a different beast, ain’t it. You gotta do it right. You’ll know it when you do. It’ll make your bones good and strong. It’ll make ya _better_.”

Her daddy was almost always right.


	6. this is Something they don't talk about

It wasn’t even supposed to be a tricky job. In fact, as John Watson tries to keep still with Simon’s fingers digging into his thigh (no, literally _in_ his thigh), he thinks that on a scale of one to breaking into an embassy… Well… it was closer to a one than anything.

Or something.

(Something niggles in John’s brain; Sherlock’s voice taunting him for not finishing his thoughts. He snarls at the voice. _Kinda got a bullet in my leg right now, I think I’ve got a gorram good excuse for bad analogies, you_ nǐ zhè ge chǔn huò!)

But of course, _of course_ something went wrong, because that’s just their luck nowadays, isn’t it. Haven’t had a job go right in weeks, close to a month.

_And then you had to go and get yourself shot, didn’tcha? Bang-up job, that. Sherlock’s gonna have a bloody cow when we get back to the ship._

Simon’s fingers touch something in his leg (he should know what it is but he can’t think right now) and sparks fly in John’s eyes; everything is electric lightning and white noise for a few moments and _oh god I’m dying this is what dying feels like isn’t it someone please tell Sherlock I lo—_

And then Simon’s fingers find the bullet and something explodes in John’s head and then he sinks into the blessed Black.

—

John wakes up warm. In fact, way too warm. Burning up—what the hell? It doesn’t feel like a fever; he’s in a bed, so they must be on the ship, so Simon would have been able to give him the anti-infection meds—

 _You could just open your eyes_ , his brain supplies helpfully.

_Oh yeah._

So he does. And the overheated feeling is made clear when he looks down a little and sees Sherlock there, clinging on with both arms and both legs wrapped solidly around his torso. He appears to be asleep, though it’s not always easy to tell. Asleep or not, John knows (from experience) that Sherlock doesn’t want to talk about this. He just wants John to shut up and let him be a limpet for a while.

So John rests his hand gently over Sherlock’s curls and lets himself drift back into morphine-induced sleep.

\--

_This particular ficlet was written for iamilex on tumblr._


	7. Anxiety in Four Acts

“What is this?”

John knows precisely what Sherlock is referring to and manages to stop pacing for the first time in three hours, finally forcing his jaw to unclench. He hasn’t been calm since he heard the name “Afghan” out of the Captain’s mouth yesterday. He requested to sit out this job, and the Captain allowed it, but it isn’t enough. He can’t bear being this close to the planet that nearly killed him, the planet that left him ravaged and broken. It’s just a few paltry yards under his boots and for the first time in his life, John is itching to take off, to be flying and surrounded by the Black once again.

“What’s what?” His voice is scratchy with anxiety and exhaustion.

“This crisis you seem to be having,” Sherlock responds smoothly. He won’t look at John, just keeps his eyes infuriatingly closed, his fingers touch that unique quirk of his lip which manages to look smug and irritated at the same time. Normally, John would be elated to see that look, so characteristic of Sherlock from Before, but right now he just wants to slap it off.

John shakes his head. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

“Don’t be tiresome,” Sherlock snaps, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and finally, finally looking at John. “God, you _pǔ tōng_ people with your _pǔ tōng_ little fears and spook-jumps in the night. I weep for the future. Now, will you please stop this utterly dull repression and just _have_ your insipid little panic attack so I can _think_!”

For a few seconds, John feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. Dimly, he notes that he’s clenching his fists so tight he can feel beads of blood seeping out from under his fingernails. It brings him bak into the world, at least a little, but it still seems like the whole Verse is coming apart atom by atom. Feels like there should be a mighty shaking, a rending of golden monuments. Feels like he’s been shot again, the lifeblood that cooked in the sand oozing endlessly out of him. Feels like dying.

He turns away from Sherlock and walks briskly out of the room.

—

Not two minutes later, he is sitting hunched over the dinner table cluttered with playing cards and dishes and one of Jayne’s lesser guns, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead, and fuck all if Simon doesn’t walk in on him in the middle of a gorram-full-blown-shaking-sobbing anxiety attack. He feels Simon’s hands on him, one on his arm and one on his back, and Simon’s voice coming from so far away: _breathe in-one-two-three, out-one-two-three, good, John, again, you know the drill_. After a few minutes, he is calmer, though the shame covers him like a shroud and he apologizes to Simon without looking at him, wiping his face clean. Simon doesn’t say anything. They’ve gone through all of this before; they, as Simon said, know the drill.

(It’s hard to see just yet, but John thinks he catches a flash of Sherlock at the doorway, unsmiling and hidden in the shadows.)

—

When he returns to the room, Sherlock is seated in the same position on the bed, his hands poised in prayer against his lips.

“Did you get any useful thinking done?” John asks. There’s no acid in his tone, just marrow-deep weariness. He turns to the dresser to get ready for bed (doesn’t matter that it’s only five thirty).

Sherlock shifts behind him, and John feels him stand up, that long, thin shadow looming against the wall. “John,” and John hears the guilt, the apology bubbling up in the edges of his name, in the J and the N and _oh Christ on a stick I cannot handle that right now_.

“It’s fine,” he interrupts. He wants to head this off as soon as possible, put Afghan and this whole rotten day behind them and move on. “I’m sorry for wrecking your concentration.” Silence, utter blank silence, but at least John can breathe now.

“Joooohn!”

Kaylee, cheerful, getting closer, tapping out a skipping rhythm on the grates; the job was over, and by the sound of it, had gone well. John steps out to greet her, and she skips up the ramp and jumps to land in front of him. John can’t help but smile a little.

“Gotcha somethin’,” she says, her hands tight behind her back, barely able to contain herself. John raises his eyebrows, and she hands him a small box, unmarked. He opens it and pulls out a roll of multicoloured gauze.

“It’s for your medical bag,” she explains. “I know it’s silly, but I get a little tired a seein’ the same old white covering all our cuts and sores, ya know? D’ya like it?”

John is full-out grinning now, and he feels a little lighter. “Thanks, Kaylee. It’s perfect.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, good,” she laughs, and stretches forard to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m gonna go make dinner!” she announces as she begins to walk away. “We’re gonna have a feast tonight! Takeoff in two minutes!”

—

Later that night, after helping Zoe and Jayne unload few crates, John collapses into bed fully dressed. Sherlock is already buried under his own blankets, so John just turns out the light and settles down, hoping he can sleep hard enough to forget this day ever happened.

Right as John is about to fall over the precipice, Sherlock’s deep, soft voice breaks through the darkness. “You’re not, you know. Ordinary, I mean. You’re not _pǔ tōng_."

“I know, Sherlock.”

There is a pause. Then: “Are you feeling better?” And just like that they are back to normal, as normal as they can be under the circumstances. John smiles into his pillow.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”


	8. As It Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jayne never wanted them, not none of them.

Jayne never wanted them on the ship. He didn’t want the first pair of freaks, the damnable Doc and his spacey sister. Now there were two. 

“Gorrammit, Mal, why’d you have to pick up these other strays? We got enough crazy on this ship without ‘em.” 

He’s got Mal cornered in the kitchen—made damn sure the Cap’n didn’t have a sharp pointy, first, he isn’t dumb—to get some answers.

_Jayne’s been spittin’ mad since they picked up the two half-dead fugitives, the skinny one screamin’ like a banshee what been electrocuted. Next mornin’, he’d been in the infirmary lookin’ for the Doc to fix the stitches he’d popped and forgot about, and there he was, on the bed, strapped down and sleepin’ like a babe. After a quick check to make sure he weren’t awake, Jayne turned to look for some painkillers. Doc ain’t gonna be in to fix his stitches, Jayne’s gonna help himself to the Doc’s supplies._

_“John?” Jayne dropped the bottle he was holding and jumped a foot._

_“ I thought you were asleep!” he yelled, turning to look at the guy. They locked eyes for a moment and Jayne was spooked. Under his dark mop of curly hair plastered against his white face, the boy’s eyes looked… unnatural. Jayne backed up toward the door, one hand on his knife._

_“Jayne Cobb. You’re a very bad man. Worse than you let people know.” His voice was hollow and foreign. Jayne might’a guessed one of the minor core planets. Weird snobby sons u’bitches out there._

_“What in the name ‘a—“ Jayne started to pull the hunting knife from its sheathe. Then the smartass went and smirked, so skinny Jayne could see the hollows his collarbones._

_“But better, too. Hero of Canton. Hmm.”_

_“Sherlock?” Another one of those foreign accents. A man came down the stairs and the pale kid’s attention was for only for him._

_“How long’s he been awake?” the new man asked Jayne._

_“No ruttin’ idea. Spoutin’ nonsense, though. Freak.”_

Jayne’s eye is still black. New Doc’s got a damn good arm, and sportin’ a matchin’ shiner. 

“You want to back up, now and it’s best if you don’t ask questions you know the answer to, Jayne,” says Mal, evenly. Jayne curls his lip, growls and backs off. Mal walks past him with his cup of tea and Jayne stands in the empty kitchen, arms folded, against one of the cupboards. 

He never wanted them. Now there’s a matching set. River, pretty as can be, but he don’t think like that when she’s around—when either of them are, now—and Sherlock, who Jayne’s convinced is some kinda queer or another, pinin’ after that Dr. Watson. 

Jayne thinks he wouldn’t mind so much if Sherlock didn’t steal his gun (not Vera, there’d be nothin’ left of the sunuvabitch but a few curly black hairs) to make a compressed laser, whatever the hell that’s used for. 

As it were, he wants them all off the gorram ship.


	9. Nightmares and Fairytales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock has a nightmare, John tries to help him get back to sleep how Harry helped him when he was little.

_Screaming._

That’s what wakes John up for the third night in a row. Last night it was River, but this time it’s Sherlock again, and as John jumps, stumbles, trips in a routine panic over to Sherlock’s bunk to bring him back, to anchor his ship in the storm, he hears the absolutely terrified sort of scream he didn’t think adults could make.

“Sherlock, stop,” John says, putting his hand on Sherlock’s chest, right in the middle, where he can feel the elevated heart-rate through the slightly damp cotton. If John touches his shoulders or wrists or head first, Sherlock starts fighting. Not for the first time, John is disgusted with what they did to his best friend.

After a moment, Sherlock calms down, still asleep. John knows he won’t stay calm if he’s left like that. He never does. He’s got to be woken up, reminded of reality, before he can begin to sleep again.

“John?” calls Simon through the paper-thin door panel. Of course. John had done the same thing the night before. 

“Yeah,” says John, hand still splayed on Sherlock’s chest, gently rising with his steadying breaths. Simon slides the door open to peek inside.

“Sherlock okay? It’s just… River. She started whining in her sleep, not like last night, but she started talking. Saying, ‘no, don’t hurt him, stop hurting him!’ and then…” He looks at Sherlock’s damp face and drawn brow. “Well, ah, is there anything I can do?” He looks awkward, knows he can’t, wants to offer his support. John just smiles a bit.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it under control. Sorry ‘bout him. Try and go back to sleep,” he says. Simon nods and closes the door. John waits until he hears Simon go in his room, back to his sister, before he smooths back Sherlock’s curly hair, his other hand still on his chest.

“Sherlock,” he says softly. “Wake up, now.” With a small gasp, Sherlock wakes and turns his eyes on John. After a long look, he turns over and curls in on himself, staring at the wall.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock, don’t be like that. I’m not mad,” John says, reaching out to touch Sherlock’s shoulder. He flinches at the touch, but doesn’t try to shrug him off, which John takes as a good sign.

“It’s not your fault, I know that.” Sherlock continues to stare at the wall, hardly blinking. He gets so angry with himself when he wakes up John with one of his nightmares, so frustrated that he can’t control himself when he’s asleep. If it were up to him, Sherlock would rather suffer in silence or stop sleeping altogether—John knows; Sherlock’s tried—but John won’t let him. John sighs, exhausted, and goes back to his own bunk.

“Try to go back to sleep, Sherlock. Please,” he says, and climbs under his blankets. He turns the light out and gets comfortable. Waits. 

A minute passes; two minutes; three.

Sherlock’s bed rustles and gives the smallest of groans as he gets up and crosses the small room. John doesn’t bother to act like he’s sleeping. He doesn’t fool Sherlock and doesn’t care.

“John,” he says, standing over his bunk. John turns over, propping himself up on an elbow.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks. Sherlock shakes his head and moves to in the bunk with John. “Really, Sherlock?” he asks, but doesn’t argue, just moves over. For being so tall, Sherlock folds himself up surprisingly small, all knees and elbows. 

John is reminded of getting in bed with Harry when he was a kid, after nightmares about Reavers. He remembers the stories Harry told him to get him back to sleep, old stories, fairy tales, from way back on Earth that Was. His favorite had been Rumpelstiltskin, and he remembers all of it, he thinks.

“Once upon a time,” he begins. Sherlock snorts, pushing his face into John’s side as they both move so they’re more comfortable. 

“That’s a completely outdated construction that—”

“Hush, don’t ruin the story, you spoilsport. Once upon a time…”

—-

“And she lived happily ever after,” John finishes. Sherlock is breathing softly, mouth slightly open, head on John’s arm. 

_Damn,_ he thinks. _I’m not going to be able to move that shoulder for shit tomorrow._ Regardless, John falls asleep. 

When he wakes up in the morning, Sherlock isn’t in the room. Just as he’s about to go look for for him (he isn’t panicked; how far can Sherlock get on a space ship?), Sherlock walks in with a towel wrapped around his waist, dark curls dripping. 

John doesn’t mention their slumber party, and Sherlock doesn’t even look at him. Instead, he drops his towel on his bunk and proceeds to look for his clothes. John rolls his eyes and turns back over, pulling his pillow over the top of his head. 

_No bloody modesty,_ he thinks, waiting until Sherlock has his slightly-too-short jumpsuit on. 

“Captain says we have a job today,” says Sherlock. He smiles. “Finally.” 

John only hopes the distraction will be enough for Sherlock’s nightmares. Never is for long, though.


	10. Easy Way or the Hard Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are two ways to move a person off a walkway.

John pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. He’s standing on the catwalk of the ship’s hold, looking down at Sherlock, who has been laying in the middle of the path for over an hour now. After Jayne had threatened to “remove the obstacle” himself, John decided to go see what he could do.

“Sherlock, you have to get up. People need to get through here.”

“Dull,” shoots back Sherlock quickly, not opening his eyes. His fingers rest just under his chin, lightly touching each other as Sherlock thinks. 

“ _Wǒ bùnéng xiāngxìn zhè_ , Sherlock, this isn’t the time. Come on, they’ve got a job to do. We’re supposed to stay in our room. They can’t have wanted fugitives of the Alliance laying about the walkways!” 

“They might like a dead one, though,” says Jayne, watching from one of the higher catwalks, eating an apple speared on his knife. Kaylee is standing next to him, frowning. 

“Don’t say that,” she says, punching him in the shoulder. “Sherlock and Dr. Watson are our friends. We ain’t throwin’ them out to the feds, no way.” John looks up at Kaylee and smiles briefly.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Doctor,” says Captain Mal, walking up to Sherlock’s head. “The easy way is that you get Baby Bear here to sleep in another bed. Preferably somewhere outta sight.” John shakes his head once and breathes hard through his nose.

“And the hard way?” he asks. Mal looks down at Sherlock, considering him for a moment.

“I don’t take joy in the notion, but we’ll have to haul him down. One way or th’other, your _nánhái_ is gettin’ gone.” Mal crosses his arms and looks back to John. He’s not bluffing, John knows. Even though Sherlock will scream and fight and probably have nightmares, Mal, Jayne and John could get him down to the room or the infirmary. _Not the infirmary. I can’t sedate him again._ John remembers how betrayed Sherlock looked after the last time. He crouches down next to Sherlock, his knee bent just above Sherlock’s chest.

“ _Qǐng tīng_ , Sherlock. Just… if you get up and come down to the passenger rooms, we can play cards with Simon and River. I won’t make you sit and do nothing like last time.” Sherlock lets out a frustrated snort.

“River cheats,” he grunts. John laughs.

“No, she won’t this time, okay? _Wǒ dāyìng_.” Sherlock opens his eyes, locking straight on to John’s, searching them. After a tense second, he rolls them and moves his hands to stand up. 

When he gets to his feet he brushes quickly past Mal, who just shakes his head. 

“Go see to Baby Bear, Dr. Watson. And tell him there’s a chess set in the games cupboard. Missin’ a pawn on either side, but I’m sure he’ll manage.” John nods, back straight, and walks after Sherlock.

“Well that was ant’ay climactic,” says Jayne. Mal walks over to the stairs, shaking his head.

“Anti-climactic is good. It’s quiet. At least he weren’t screamin’ and carryin’ on.” He looks up at Jayne, who shrugs. “C’mon, Jayne. Time for crime.”


	11. Reminders of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and John have a lot in common.

Sometimes, Simon and John like to sit around and shoot the breeze, just talk about medical school, or the night Simon climbed the statue of Hippocrates (John would have none of that, but he did have enough sake for a couple people, and couldn’t remember why he was wearing a toga) or when they’d done some daring surgery, or had animals named after them in thanks, or hugs from little girls who had legs or lungs or eyes because of them…

It never lasts. They’ll be talking and starting to feel normal again (they don’t have normal anymore, but it’s as close as they can come) when one of their geniuses has a bad day. Once, Zoe brings Sherlock into their room gagged with his hands tied behind his back. John can’t ever get it out of either of them what Sherlock said, but he guesses it was about the war. Something Zoe did. Something dark. Sherlock always seems to know. 

Then there was the time he made a smiling face in the wall of the infirmary with all the knives in the kitchen. Knives are under lock and key after that. Cap’n’s orders. There’d been another incident before John and Sherlock had come on board, something with Jayne and River. And River. _River_. Screaming what sounds like nonsense (John knows it makes sense to her; Sherlock does it sometimes, but he can be a lot quieter about it.) and locking herself in the spare shuttle, throwing supplies everywhere. 

John and Simon have learned to deal with it. Calm them down, or at least restrain them. Petting hair, soft words, reminding them what’s real and what can’t hurt them anymore. They don’t talk about it, though. They can’t. There are things neither of them can say: regrets they wish they didn’t have and wishes they try desperately to hide. So they don’t talk about them. They talk about old times and they skirt around subjects that come too close to their restricted topics: memories of Sherlock and River Before. Simon does tell John about her dancing; John tells Simon about Sherlock’s violin. 

They both know, though. They know what they want more than anything, what they would both give anything in the ‘verse to have. But they won’t say it. It doesn’t matter anyway. They are where they are, and that’s that.


	12. Little One

“You’re gonna come with us,” Kaylee calls out to a young woman from her perch on Serenity’s ramp. Kaylee can tell she’s a little one, won’t be trouble at all. She ain’t even carrying two bags, like most people; she’s only got one big duffel slung across her back. Doesn’t want to take up space; Kaylee can respect that. (She can spot the unobtrusive ones from a mile away. Captain sometimes calls her his own personal Hunter-Gatherer. She always smiles at the truth of it.)

The young woman jumps, sending her long braid flying over her shoulder as she turns to face Kaylee. “W—whwhat?” she stammers out in a shaky voice.

Kaylee stands with her hands up, palms outward. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I ain’t gonna bitecha,” she says with her friendliest grin. _She’s a shy one. Gonna be harder to draw her out. Be careful or you’ll scare the poor thing._ As she walks down the ramp, she extends her hand toward the woman. _Hell, up close she’s just a girl, still. Like me._ ”I’m Kaylee, the mechanic for Serenity here.” The girl shakes her hand, firmly and quickly.

“Molly.” A small smile creeps into the corners of Molly’s lips.

 _Well that’s a good sign if there ever was one._ “You lookin’ to travel, Molly?”

“Oh, you’d better believe it,” Molly grins, letting out a breathy, nervous laugh. “I ain’t never been anywhere but here. I got la… I quit my job yesterday.” She ducks her head at the slip, but Kaylee just raises her eyebrows and tilts her head to show she’s listening. Molly straightens a bit at the encouragement. 

_Hmm. Maybe you’re not so shy after all, little one._

“And, well, anyway, I’ve saved up a whole heap of money, and I wanted to see a bit more of the Verse, ya know?”

“Oh hell, do I!” Kaylee laughs delightedly. “I’d never been anywhere but my own backyard ‘til ‘bout three years ago. Then Serenity came and changed my whole life. She does that to ya.” Kaylee looks back fondly at her ship, half-reaching for the supports as if to pet it.

“I don’t take up a whole lotta space,” Molly says quickly, as though she has to sell herself for the place on Serenity she’s already got. “I’ll pay on time, every time, I promise.”

“Oh, honey, you belong with us, I’m sure of it,” Kaylee assures her.

Molly’s grin is as bright as Persephone’s sun.


	13. Next to You in the Black

Captain had said to get gone, so they had. After their last job (gone south) they'd been worried about gettin' Serenity aloft again. But she'd made it to an Outer planet. Pretty nice one. Thing is, the Captain and Zoe had decided to get Serenity's papers updated (for once). Can't have fugitives on a respectable cargo vessel, can ya? Hence the gone-gettin'.

John had (stupidly, in retrospect) given Sherlock the task of starting a fire while he set up their canvas tent. He suspected it was Mal's, maybe Zoe's, Independent Army Issue. Easy enough—he had one himself in the war, bit nicer, but same concept—and up it pops, sleepable for three or four men. Tonight it was just two, though. When he finishes the tent, John turns to find Sherlock making what appears to be a gorram log cabin out of the small bundle of kindling they'd collected.  


"Sherlock, that's not how you—" He walks closer to help, but Sherlock just shushes him and continues working, minutely moving twigs into perfect precision. John rolls his eyes and starts stowing their bag (just one; travel light out in the wilderness) and the sleeping packs. He hears Sherlock muttering to himself.  


" _Wánměi de jiǎodù zuò yīgè jiégòu jiànquán..._ " It's almost sing-song. John crouches down next to him.  


"Sherlock, I have to light it now. The sun's gone down and I don't really fancy freezing to death tonight, _nǐ ne_?"  


"Wait. Wait. _Wait._ " He pushes sticks around so insignificantly that John can't tell the difference when he's done, but he's insistent and John has nothing but patience for Sherlock, most days. He takes another deep breath and waits.  


Suddenly, with one graceful movement, Sherlock reaches in the waistband of John's pants, pulls out the laser-pistol that's tucked there, and fires it at one of the bottom corners of the structure. The whole thing ignites in a flash of white and then settles into a crackling campfire. John is speechless for half a second.  


Sherlock holds out the pistol timidly, like he doesn't know how to use it, like he didn't just expertly shoot it, like he thinks he's in trouble. John takes it, stuffs it back in his waistband, and just shakes his head.  


\---  


They've moved the tent so they can lay half-in-half-out, looking up at the stars. At first, they're just lookin'. Well, John is. It's never lost on him how small he is, and how many people there are. _That's why we left Earth That Was, anyway. Too many of us. Spreadin' like a disease in the body of the 'Verse. It probably don't want us any more than a person wants a plague,_ he thinks.  


His sleepy musings are interrupted by frantic whispering beside him.  


"Fifty-five trillion, six hundred thirty-three billion, two hundred fifty-four million, three hundred thirty-four thousand, one hundred twenty-one. Fifty-five trillion, six hundred thirty-three billion, two hundred fifty-four million, three hundred thirty-four thousand, one hundred twenty- _two_. fifty-five trillion, six hundred thirty-three billion, two hundred—"  


John sits up and looks down at Sherlock. His eyes are wildly twitching back and forth across the sky, lit up by the firelight and pricked with the stars. John lays a hand on his shoulder and he jumps, gasping suddenly. Sherlock curls over on his side and lets out a sob, clutching at his head. John pulls Sherlock's head into his lap and runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tangling in the soft curls.  


"You don't have to count the stars, Sherlock. Nobody does," he says quietly. The only sound in the forest is him, the crackle of the fire, and Sherlock's gasping sobs as he tries to control himself. He shakes his head.  


"They aren't infinite, John. They're quantifiable, I just need to count them, but my eyes won't _let me_ ," he says through gritted teeth. " _Zhème duō_! And we're nothing. Just drifting in the black, aloft in the cosmos, insignificant and meaningless, stuck in between." John can feel him calming down, keeps petting his hair, but knows it will be a while before he'll sleep. Either of 'em.  


"If you were meaningless, Sherlock, we wouldn't be here, would we?" he asks. "No, we'd be back on Apollo, probably, I don't know..." He thinks back, unable to imagine normality anymore. "Having tea."  


Sherlock's breaths even out and he lets go of his head and relaxes his muscles more, but doesn't move, doesn't let go of John. The stars twinkle sinisterly above and the fire crackles on. Even in all the light, John finds he doesn't mind being in the Black, drifting, as Sherlock put it. _As long as we've all got a compass_ , he thinks, _we won't get lost_.


	14. The Fucked-Up Survival Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This one is rather important in setting up the Firelock universe we’re working with, so it’s a bit more plot-heavyish than character-studyish. I hope you don’t mind. We’ll return to the angst presently.

“Simon—?”

The snow is falling so thick and fast that John can barely see the edge of his front porch, but—yes, yes, that’s Simon Tam standing there in the middle of it all, half-shadowed by the porchlight, like the wind is so strong that it’s blown some of the light away into the night.

Simon steps forward, and John cracks his screen door and grabs Simon’s arm, yanking him through the small opening and slamming the door behind them. The meager amount of snow that managed to sneak in falls gently to the heated floor and begins to melt, and Simon stands in front of John, shoulders hunched, shivering so hard that his teeth audibly clack together.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers out as John checks his pulse. It’s racing, fluttering like hummingbird wings under John’s fingers. “I didn’t know where else I—You’re not busy, are you?”

“No, it’s all right. _Wǒde tiān_ , you aren’t even wearing a coat—hang on, I’ll get a fire going.”

He leads Simon to the soft carpet in front of the fireplace, tossing a heavy blanket over his shoulders. The blazing fire turns Simon’s face into a warzone of new hollows and tired, tense ridges. He’s aged ten years since John saw him six months ago (and somewhere in John’s mind, behind his worry, he wonders if he looks the same). John lowers himself down gingerly and starts to rub Simon’s arms. The muscles under his fingers shake and shake.

“I think River’s in trouble,” Simon says dully. John’s hands freeze. on Simon’s shoulders “She sent me these letters, I—they don’t make _sense_ , there are spelling errors and weird phrases, and my parents refuse to listen…” He’s fading; the stress is weighing him down, sapping out all of his energy. “I don’t know what to do.”

John exhales, and it is the sound of someone just realizing that sometimes the Verse throws you a miracle in disguise and you’re not alone anymore. “Oh, thank _Christ_.” He hauls himself up, not even wincing when his bad shoulder twinges, and somehow manages not to run over to the hallway table. He picks up a small stack of written letters (hands perfectly steady), and thrusts them into Simon’s lap. “Sherlock sent me these over the course of about three months. I got the last one four weeks ago and there’s been nothing since. He mentions things that never happened, wrong solutions to cases we’ve solved, there are weird handwriting shifts—I thought there might be some kind of code, but—It’s no code I recognize.” He realizes his breathing has gone a bit ragged, and he watches Simon riffle through the papers, watches the life and energy slowly come back to his friend. “I thought I was going mad, but…”

Simon tears his eyes away from Sherlock’s letters and locks eyes with John. “Do you think—maybe they got together somehow? Made the code together?”

“It’s possible, yes,” John breathes. “That’s something Sherlock would do.”

“Yes, River too. They were— _are_ —so alike—here.” Simon reaches into his pocket with trembling hands and pulls out a stuffed envelope. “These are all of them.” He shoves them into John’s hands. “What if we put them all together? What if that’s how we break it?”

“I can’t say it’s the most reasonable theory,” John admits, running hands through his hair, “but then again, you can’t hardly call Sherlock and River reasonable. Let’s do it.”

—

After shoving John’s coffee table and spreading the papers out on the floor, they work for thirteen hours straight. Their hands flick over the pages (seventeen in all), marking odd turns of phrase, spelling errors, ordering and reordering and folding and unfolding in dozens of possible patterns.

They get nowhere. Nothing makes sense, and after thirteen hours, John lays down the paper he had in his hand and leans back, into the couch, utterly defeated. Simon presses on, gritting his teeth, but soon he’s on his back, staring dazedly up at the ceiling. They do not speak. Simon rolls his head toward the papers and they stare together at the mess of despair and ink spilled across the floor. John’s vision blurs.

(This is the part where, were it fiction, John would have rolled his eyes, because miracles like that don’t happen in real life. But maybe that old story John remembers his sister telling him, that everyone gets one miracle in their life and it comes when it’s least expected, is true, because this once, just this once, he sees as Sherlock might have and it alters the course of his entire life.)

John freezes, eyes focusing on one paper, the first of River’s letters. Her words tilt backward, so far that John thinks you might be able to push em over with a breath. Right next to River’s letter, the bottom left tip obscuring River’s signature, is Sherlock’s fourth letter, the handwriting tipped to the right, much more than his normal, mostly-straight-up-and-down chicken scratch.

“That’s…wait.”

John launches himself off of the couch and begins to feverishly reorder the papers. “Look,” he breathes as he grabs and places and grabs and places the pages. “They wouldn’t have ordered them on any obvious way, too easily detectable. No, Simon, look, _look at this_.”

Simon rolls and stands up, stepping back to assess the row of pages. John wills him to understand, and then _he does_. “ _Oh_ ,” he whispers. _This is what Sherlock must feel like when he solves a case_ , John thinks. He figures he could survive on this feeling alone for a good solid month.

The handwriting. _The handwriting_. The papers aren’t in any kind of chronological order; they aren’t in any order at all except that the words tilt far to the left at the beginning of the row of pages and gradually shifts right, almost flat across the invisible lines. This is what they’ve been looking for, this is the pattern. John is sure of it, completely sure.

After that, it only takes the two of them about twenty minutes to decipher the message. When Simon finishes writing the last letter of the message, John finds he isn’t breathing. It hits John like a ton of bricks to the chest that this is just the beginning; that his life is violently changing courses, like a train running at 200 miles per hours suddenly being thrown into reverse. That this shackles-and-chains, fucked-up-survival kind of love he has for Sherlock Holmes is actually probably going to get him killed this time. He is blindingly, buzzingly alive and utterly consumed by terror; it feels like a neutron bomb has decided to make a home in his chest, mid-explosion.

**thEy’re HURTinG US**

Simon begins to cry.


End file.
